


The Ties That Bind

by daasgrrl



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-02
Updated: 2013-07-02
Packaged: 2017-12-16 20:09:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/866111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daasgrrl/pseuds/daasgrrl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Why did Mycroft need to make everything so complicated?</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Ties That Bind

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to [evila_elf](http://archiveofourown.org/users/evila_elf/pseuds/evila_elf) for beta.
> 
> ~~Inspired by a prompt/suggestion I read somewhere (probably livejournal) along the lines of "Sherlock rides Mycroft's cock until he begs for mercy" but I can't find it again for the life of me. If this was you, thank you. I think.~~
> 
> Inspired by [overnightbivouac](http://archiveofourown.org/users/overnightbivouac/pseuds/overnightbivouac)'s [holmestice prompt](http://holmestice.livejournal.com/213605.html) (b) - "Sherlock handcuffs Mycroft to his bed and rides him, slowly, until Mycroft breaks down and begs." Thank you; I should have known it was you *g*

Sherlock edged carefully into Mycroft’s room, the firelight glinting on the silver tray he carried in both hands. Whenever Mycroft returned home he retained the habit of winding down in his favourite armchair by the fire, as though he were an old man in his sixties rather than his twenties, and tonight was no exception. He looked up from his book at Sherlock’s appearance, his brow slightly furrowed. At this hour they were both in dressing gowns and pyjamas, and Sherlock’s bare feet sank into the rug as he made his way over to the low table, setting his burden down. A cosy-covered teapot rested on the tray between two china cups, accompanied by a small silver jug of milk, a bowl of sugar cubes and a tastefully arranged dish of _amaretti_ biscuits. Sherlock took the seat opposite Mycroft without being invited, and waited.

“I think you might be a _little_ confused over the concept of elevenses,” Mycroft said, having surveyed the contents of the tray before returning his attention to Sherlock. “What is it you want, Sherlock?”

“You’re off back to London tomorrow. I can’t just do something . . . thoughtful?”

“No, I don’t think you can.”

However, he set aside his book, and made no objection as Sherlock leaned over to pour his cup three-quarters full. Mycroft took his tea austerely black, which Sherlock had always thought a pointless affectation considering his other habits. Nevertheless, he also knew that the presence of milk and sugar on the tray were essential for the sake of appearances, whether or not anyone would be using them. Mycroft had his _standards_ , after all. He imagined that as an infant Mycroft would have thrown a tantrum if he’d found the bunny pictures on his bowl and spoon mismatched.

Sherlock watched with affected indifference as Mycroft took a tentative sip of his tea, then a more confident one. It was a lapsang souchong; strong and smoky on the palate, and evidently brewed to Mycroft’s satisfaction. He showed considerably less caution with the top biscuit, which disappeared in a single bite.

“Join me, won’t you?” Mycroft said, with an edge that made it slightly more than a suggestion. Behind it lingered the echoes of his efforts over the years to mould Sherlock into the shape of polite society – to say thank you, shake hands, stand up, sit down. What Mycroft never seemed to realise was that his efforts had merely provided Sherlock with a helpful guide to causing maximum offence in any given situation. Nevertheless, Sherlock reached for the teapot and tended dutifully to his own cup, following it up with a token amount of milk. Mycroft took another sip of his tea, and Sherlock let out his breath slowly, imperceptibly. _Three_.

“Take me with you,” Sherlock said abruptly. It was both admission and distraction.

Mycroft frowned at him, then into his cup. “No.”

“Just until term starts. I’ll die of boredom here.”

“I’ll make sure you have a fitting epitaph.”

Mycroft’s expression of mock sympathy coincided with a second biscuit and another sip of tea. _Four._ Sherlock took a sugar cube from the bowl with his fingers, ignoring the tongs, enjoying Mycroft’s reflexive wince. He dropped it into his tea, followed by another, not quite forcefully enough to splash. Then he took up his spoon and stirred methodically.

“I won’t be any trouble. And you forget, I’m eighteen now. No-one can stop me. I’ll just threaten not to go back to uni.”

At that, Mycroft set his cup and saucer down completely. “You’d do it too, wouldn’t you?”

Sherlock shrugged. “It’s not as though they could teach me anything I can’t learn for myself.” He raised his own cup, carefully not letting the liquid touch his lips.

“You have to go back,” Mycroft said, looking suddenly confused.

“Have some more tea, Mycroft.”

Calmly, Sherlock refreshed his cup, and watched as Mycroft took another, automatic sip. _Five_. That really should do it. He reached over and plucked the china gently out of Mycroft’s hands, setting them back on the table as Mycroft stared at him, a dull, distant awareness growing in his eyes.

“Sherlock, what on earth do you think you’re doing?”

He started to stagger up from the chair, but fortunately there was plenty of time for Sherlock to catch him by the shoulders before he could slump forward onto the table.

***

It was astonishing how unwieldy Mycroft was when he was unconscious. Sherlock found him difficult to manage at the best of times, but at this point the phrase had become entirely too literal for his liking. He settled on a sort of shoulder-supported drag, resulting in the loss of both of Mycroft’s slippers at the juncture where rug met floor boards. Sherlock had left Mycroft slumped in his chair long enough to lock the door and turn down the covers, and now he pushed Mycroft into a semi-seated position on the bed, before pivoting him sideways and down. Mycroft’s head came neatly to rest on the waiting pillow, but the rest of him remained in a rather ungainly sprawl over the sheets.

Still panting from exertion, Sherlock rolled Mycroft completely onto his back, laying him out properly, then hesitated. In theory he could still turn back, leave Mycroft to wake up alone in his bed, and pass it off as a parting joke. Mycroft would doubtless have a few sharp words for him afterwards, but he’d endured enough of those over the years. However, if he went through with it, and it turned out that he was wrong, then perhaps Mycroft would never speak to him again. The thought made him slightly ill, but he’d already waited for so long, wanting to ease the baseless qualms Mycroft might yet have, at least when it came to his age. Surely he wasn’t wrong, though, not about something so important. He knew Mycroft better than anyone else in the world.

The thought was comforting, and he straightened up with renewed determination, reaching into the pockets of his dressing gown to extract two bundles of cloth and a pair of sharp scissors. Cotton bandages had seemed the easiest, most accessible option, and he had purchased three 10-metre rolls, just to be on the safe side. One had already been used up in practice. Setting them on the bed, he bent to undo the buttons of Mycroft’s pyjama top before beginning to wrestle Mycroft out of both it and his dressing gown simultaneously. Mycroft favoured a very limited range of blues in his sleepwear, and this was a typical ensemble – navy blue dressing gown and pale blue pyjamas, with fine white stripes and navy blue piping. Mycroft’s breathing hitched and he muttered an unintelligible protest as Sherlock rolled him to one side and then the other to get the sleeves off, throwing the bundle of cloth across the room.

Appealing as the sight was, Sherlock could not stop to appreciate it; he needed to focus on securing Mycroft properly before he woke up. Mycroft’s bed was a relic from the Victorian era, the solid mahogany headboard featuring a wide centre panel engraved with entwined curlicues, flanked on either side by thinner uprights and sturdy end posts. Sherlock cut off a long length of bandage, then looped it several times around one of Mycroft’s wrists, spreading the tension evenly. He threaded one end through the uprights and took the other around the bedpost, knotting them tightly together, and then repeated the procedure on the other side, kneeling up beside Mycroft’s head to do so. Mycroft’s wrists were now level with his head, his elbows spread apart. He appeared to have settled into placidity once more, undisturbed by Sherlock’s manipulations.

Working swiftly, Sherlock moved down to Mycroft’s lower body, taking hold of the elastic of both his pyjama bottoms and the plain white shorts he wore underneath. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen Mycroft completely naked, and some residual fragment of uncertainty made him avert his eyes as he worked them both off, pulled them clear of Mycroft’s bare feet. He applied his makeshift restraints to each of Mycroft’s ankles, anchoring them to the corresponding posts of the footboard. The bed wasn’t much longer than Mycroft himself, with only a few inches’ clearance at top and bottom, and the bindings held him firmly spread-eagled in place. His feet were long and pale and strangely vulnerable.

With that done, Sherlock could afford a moment’s contemplation. He bundled his things away and then sat down on the edge of the bed, just watching Mycroft breathe, still slow and regular, but noticeably shallower than it had been minutes ago. He ran a caressing hand across Mycroft’s bare arm, just to feel the slide of skin under his fingertips. It had all gone smoothly, better than he’d hoped for, but now that Mycroft was lying helpless in front of him, the doubt had begun to creep back in. He leaned in closer, laying a hand against the side of Mycroft’s neck, feeling the pulse thrum steadily beneath his fingers. Sherlock briefly closed his eyes, letting warmth and anticipation flow through him in turn. He wasn’t wrong about this. He couldn’t be.

He turned to study Mycroft’s face more closely, as though it would somehow enable Sherlock to divine his thoughts, but no new insights were forthcoming. Only Mycroft could manage to be so frustrating even in his sleep. Sherlock still wasn’t exactly sure when the nature of things had changed between them, and that awareness bothered him. He felt it was important to have a record of such things, to be able to pinpoint a time and a date and a place, as a kind of evidentiary proof. It wasn’t enough just to _know_. However, considering the erratic patterns of Mycroft’s own behaviour, it was unlikely he would ever be of much help in establishing the matter.

Mycroft’s mouth had fallen slightly open, and Sherlock traced the thin curves of his lips with the tip of a finger, considering. Any remaining concentration of the drug in Mycroft’s mouth would not be enough to affect him now. Still, he should wait; that was right, that was only _polite_ , in its own aberrant way, but he was high on nerves and adrenaline, and he’d already waited so very long – not minutes, but years. He bent his mouth to Mycroft’s, felt the tingle of anticipation flare into something more insistent in his gut as the gentle rush of Mycroft’s breath mixed with his own. It was the first time he’d kissed anyone; well, anyone that _mattered_. It was a pity Mycroft wasn’t able to appreciate it, but then he’d likely only have spoilt it anyway.

Having made a start, Sherlock began to probe Mycroft’s mouth gently, exploring it with his tongue, consumed with cataloguing every precious sensation. However, less than a minute later he sensed the change in Mycroft’s breathing, and pulled back hastily when it was clear he was beginning to rouse. Sherlock got to his feet again, watching the transformation. Mycroft’s eyes remained closed, but Sherlock saw the flickering beneath their lids, the tension in Mycroft’s muscles as he realised he was bound, followed by the immediate, subtle testing of the strength and limits of his restraints.

“You may as well stop pretending to be asleep,” Sherlock said.

Mycroft opened his eyes, and their dazed blue cleared abruptly as he focused on Sherlock. “If this is your idea of _persuasion . . ._ ”

“You were never going to take me to London.”

Judging from his expression, it was not at all what Mycroft had expected to hear. “Then what?” He stared up at Sherlock, frowning. Both of them appeared to be resolutely ignoring his state of undress. “Blackmail? A few compromising photos, perhaps?”

Sherlock shook his head, suddenly unsure where to begin. His earlier confidence had dissipated; his heart was still racing, but with anxiety rather than anticipation. This was the part he hadn’t properly planned for; he’d thought he’d improvise well enough when the time came. Now it was _here_ , and he hadn’t counted on the dispiriting quality of Mycroft’s glare. However, he felt he’d already come too far to back down.

Adolescence had arrived late for Sherlock, but had borne down upon him with a vengeance. With the taller frame and the deeper voice had come the complications of sexual desire, which had somehow become inextricably intertwined with new, unsettling thoughts of Mycroft. Perhaps at first it had only been that Sherlock had missed him – Mycroft was already settled in London, single-mindedly pursuing his career – but it quickly became clear that when it came to getting himself off, the thought of his brother did it better and faster than any other stimulus. While this realisation was both inconvenient and annoying, Sherlock had seen no point in denying it, any more than he might dispute the chemical composition of sulphuric acid or the biological necessity of breathing. It was simply a fact.

“I wanted . . .” Sherlock said, and then stopped. He sat down beside Mycroft again, his hand reaching out towards Mycroft’s shoulder, daring to stroke the bare, freckled skin. He was acutely aware of Mycroft trembling under his touch. Further down, his fingers tangled in the soft, surprising fuzz of hair on Mycroft’s chest, unruly in a way its possessor no doubt highly disapproved of. Mycroft’s chest rose and fell lightly under his hand, the rhythm of his heart seeming to speed up to match Sherlock’s own.

“Sherlock?” Mycroft sounded high and breathless. He _never_ sounded like that. Sherlock had thought mild surprise about as much as he was capable of nowadays.

“I’m of age now,” Sherlock began, not that it mattered, but he wanted to impress upon Mycroft just how patient, how _considerate_ , he’d been. “And there are still a great many things I want to know. I need you to . . . teach me.” He was proud of himself, the calmness in his voice, the way he managed to hold Mycroft’s gaze throughout his speech. He’d tried to phrase it in a way that Mycroft could understand; after all, he’d always encouraged Sherlock to learn, to experiment, to find things out for himself. Surely he could see that this was no different, not really. Mycroft had gone completely still, and Sherlock took his silence for understanding, for acquiescence. He leaned over to kiss Mycroft again, or perhaps, for the first time.

Before their lips could touch, Mycroft jerked his head away, turning it as far as he could manage. “Sherlock, no!”

Sherlock pulled back at once, startled.

“You can’t,” Mycroft said, and there was something very like alarm in his eyes now. Sherlock studied it with fascination. “We can’t do . . .whatever it is you’re thinking.”

“Why?”

“You can’t seriously require an answer to that.”

Sherlock sighed. “You’re my brother,” he said, as though reciting from a paper he’d prepared earlier. “It’s technically illegal. You’re seven years older than I am. It would be a scandal if anyone found out. But they _won’t_ , Mycroft.”

“There are . . . other ways,” Mycroft said. “Other _people_ , I mean. Surely there’s some likelier prospect your age willing to join you on your little voyage of discovery.”

It was fast becoming clear that Mycroft didn’t understand at all. “I don’t _want_ anyone else. I never have. I should have thought that was obvious.” He ducked his head down again. With Mycroft still determinedly avoiding his mouth, he settled for kissing Mycroft under his jawline, along the long curve of his neck. Mycroft’s soft, wordless gasps told him he was having at least some persuasive effect.

“Sherlock, just . .. untie me. Now,” Mycroft said, twisting his head back and pulling at his bonds. “You have no idea what you’re playing at. I’ll be gone tomorrow and we will never speak of this again.”

Sherlock shook his head, stubborn now. If he hadn’t been completely sure before, Mycroft had just given him all the confirmation he needed. “I _knew_ you would be like this. Even after I _waited_. I never understood, at first, when I was younger. Why when you came back home you wouldn’t touch me any more. Why sometimes you wouldn’t even speak to me, even though I’d done nothing wrong. Why occasionally you’d even leave the room rather than be alone with me. Once I’d grown up a bit and realised. . . even now I’ve given you every opportunity, and you still haven’t said it.”

“For heaven’s sake. What am I meant to have said?”

“That you don’t want this. Me.”

Mycroft closed his eyes, and then opened them again. He met Sherlock’s gaze squarely. “I don’t want this.”

“That might have been very convincing if we didn’t both know you were lying.”

“I _can’t_ , Sherlock,” Mycroft said, his words almost stumbling over themselves in uncharacteristic haste. “You’re being – this is completely unreasonable. It’s not a matter of – I’m _responsible_ for you, do you understand? It doesn’t matter what I want. It never has. You have to accept that. Let me go. I can’t do this. I can’t.”

Sherlock nodded. “Yes, I realise.”

Mycroft might have continued speaking after that, but Sherlock had already resolved not to hear it. Instead he finally, _finally_ gave himself full permission to explore. He settled himself against Mycroft’s body, his thigh across Mycroft’s hip, his dressing gown pooling silk over them both. Slow kisses along Mycroft’s neck turned into lapping at his skin, salt and the scrape of stubble on his tongue. Mycroft twisted desperately away from him, but there was nowhere he could go. Sherlock splayed a hand on Mycroft’s chest, stroking, learning the breadth and depth of him, pressing his nose into Mycroft’s skin and breathing him deep. Mycroft grew quieter again, still, but his breath continued fast and unsteady, and he gasped when Sherlock propped himself up to work his teeth against the tender points of his nipples, one after the other.

Sherlock lost himself in delicious exploration, working his way methodically down the length of Mycroft’s torso as though he wanted to ensure he could reconstruct him from memory alone. He was vaguely disappointed to discover Mycroft’s cock already half-hard; ideally he would have had the opportunity to examine Mycroft first in an unaroused state, enabling him to track his responses to increasing stimulus, but clearly he should have begun his observations much earlier. Resigned, he wrapped his hand around Mycroft’s cock anyway, the sensation familiar yet strange. It was slightly broader around the base than his own, and thickened noticeably as he circled his hand loosely up and down the shaft. Sherlock stole a glance up at Mycroft’s face, but by this time his eyes were closed, his lips firmly pressed together against his body’s betrayal.

Belatedly, Sherlock became aware of his own growing arousal, and he knelt between Mycroft’s legs, pushing his pyjama drawstring down far enough to release his cock. Experimentally, he spat in his hand and then aligned his cock with Mycroft’s, masturbating them together. The sensations of pleasure were sharp and exquisite, and he groaned, newly absorbed in the slide of Mycroft’s flesh against his own. The room grew warmer; the heat of their bodies added to that of the fire casting its shadows against Mycroft’s pale skin. Sherlock finally rose to his feet to shrug off his dressing gown, followed quickly by the rest of his clothing. When he was standing naked by the bed he looked up to see Mycroft watching him, saw something flickering dark and savage in his eyes before he turned away.

Sherlock sprang instantly back onto the bed, straddling Mycroft’s chest, his hands pressed into the bed to either side of Mycroft’s face, insistent. “Mycroft. Look at me.”

Slowly, reluctantly Mycroft obeyed. Sherlock leaned forward again, demanding, and suddenly found Mycroft arching up to meet him, his mouth hard and desperate. His tongue briefly invaded Sherlock’s mouth, and Sherlock opened unhesitatingly to him. However, a moment later Mycroft drew back again, his head twisting sideways on the pillow.

“You’ve well and truly made your point, Sherlock. Let me go.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I’m nowhere near finished,” Sherlock said, but Mycroft’s wilful stubbornness troubled him. “This isn’t. . . it’s not some kind of _game_ I’m playing, if that’s what you’re thinking. I want this. You. I always have done. Ever since . . .” but that had always been the problem, hadn’t it, he wasn’t _sure_ , and the best approximation he could manage was, “. . .since I understood.”

Mycroft laughed, without the slightest trace of humour. “You’ve never even had sex. What could you possibly understand?”

“Enough,” Sherlock said. Still on his hands and knees, he reached between their bodies and took their cocks together again in his hand, defying Mycroft with his gaze. When he passed his thumb over their tips it came away wet with fluid, his or Mycroft’s, uncertain, and he used that to slick his movements as he stroked them both together in his fist. He saw Mycroft struggle to keep his face impassive, even as his hands clenched around the cloth that bound him. His eyes grew wide and then closed again as Sherlock panted gracelessly against him.

“All your lovers, your _experience_ ,” Sherlock spat. “Did any of them know you the way I do? Did they want you this much?” His voice softened, became low, cajoling. “You know that I would let you do anything you wanted to me, Mycroft. I would let you fuck me any way you wanted, tie me up, beat me. Anything.”

This time, Mycroft didn’t even open his eyes. “Let me go.”

Sherlock almost snarled. He would make Mycroft understand, had to. He shuffled further down the bed, crouched in the awkward space between Mycroft’s spread thighs, and took Mycroft’s cock in his mouth, relishing Mycroft’s gasp. He set to work with a fury, flooding his mouth with musk and salt, working his hand almost viciously on Mycroft’s cock as he sucked and swallowed. Every sound he could force out of Mycroft became a triumph, a validation, and spurred him onwards. There was just enough room that he could stroke his finger wetly down the seam of Mycroft’s perineum, circle the pucker beneath. Maybe one day Mycroft would even let him . . . but that couldn’t happen, not tonight, and so he did no more than very gently push the very tip of his finger inwards, just to feel the inviting clench of Mycroft’s muscles around him. Then Mycroft was pleading with him, brokenly, and it was no longer clear whether he wanted Sherlock to stop or to continue. However, he didn’t want Mycroft to come, not yet, and so after a last nuzzle into the softness of Mycroft’s belly, he pulled away before declaring his victory complete.

He went back up to kiss Mycroft again, and to his satisfaction Mycroft now lay there quietly and let him, as though all resistance had finally drained out of him. Sherlock was pleased with the apparent capitulation, and lingered there awhile, letting Mycroft taste himself on Sherlock’s tongue. It was so pleasant that he could have continued much longer, but there was still much that he wanted to experience while he could. Sherlock pressed forward once more as Mycroft moaned softly into his mouth, then drew back at last, rubbing his cheek against Mycroft’s sweat-damp skin.

Up until now Sherlock had been making do in the way of lubricant, but he had brought along a proper tube in the pockets of his dressing gown, which involved a brief rummage through the clothing on the floor before he located it. He was aware of Mycroft studying him as he squeezed gel onto his palm and climbed back onto the bed. He stroked himself a few times in silence, and then Mycroft, before beginning to prepare himself for what he wanted next. In his experience it was a pleasant enough chore, but slightly tedious, and he grimaced as he worked himself open with his fingers, adding more lubricant as needed. It was some small compensation that Mycroft seemed to find the activity far more compelling than he did.

“I wish I could touch you,” Mycroft said softly, which could have been truth or more treachery, but at this point Sherlock was not about to release him.

After another minute he tossed aside the lube and straddled Mycroft’s cock, letting the length of it rub slickly between his thighs, against his perineum, relishing the helpless sounds it drew from Mycroft. He continued to slide slowly back and forth as he stroked his cock back into full arousal. When he could bear the tease of it no longer, he finally reached behind him to position the tip of Mycroft’s cock against his hole, only to hesitate for the first time since he had begun. He looked to Mycroft for reassurance, but found none; in his face there was only Sherlock’s own desire and uncertainty reflected back at him.

“Sherlock . . .”

“Shhh.”

Taking a deep breath, he eased backwards, _pushed_ , and after a brief flare of pain Mycroft was inside him at last. He pushed back harder and further, feeling split wide open and exposed, and it _hurt_ , but Mycroft maintained his silence, which meant that some discomfort must be all right, normal. Mycroft would never knowingly let him come to harm. When he had sunk down as far as he could, he stopped, panting, waiting for the assault of sensation to settle into something he could tolerate. When he looked up again, Mycroft’s expression was complex, unreadable.

“Lucifer was the most beautiful of the angels,” he said at last, soft and wry.

Sherlock dismissed him with a scornful huff of breath, pre-occupied with his resurgent arousal, the fire in his nerve endings, the ache in his thighs from holding himself in place. He began to move slowly and carefully atop Mycroft, then with greater confidence, and then oh, god, _there_ , as the pleasure bloomed bright within him for a moment before fading again. He sought to recapture it, greedily, wanting to lose himself in it, to take Mycroft with him. Mycroft’s hands flexed and clutched at his bonds and he began to groan and curse as Sherlock rode him, but in the end it was Sherlock who had to look away, overwhelmed.

“Mycroft,” he gasped, all composure deserting him. He rode Mycroft with short, sharp thrusts while his hand moved faster on his cock, his head spinning with desire. He was desperate to come, _had_ to, but he needed to know Mycroft was here with him, to catch him when he fell. Close, so close. “ _Please_ , My.” He wasn’t sure whether he was asking permission or forgiveness, but received neither before his orgasm overtook him in blinding waves. He came in long streaks over Mycroft’s chest and belly, his mind suddenly, startlingly blank.

“Oh, god, no, please,” he heard Mycroft say, and for a moment Sherlock felt only a sweeping gratitude that he was there. Then Mycroft was bucking up hard under him, into him, his entire body tensing and releasing in one long shudder, the choked sounds he made caught somewhere between pleasure and pain, indistinguishable. Sherlock could only hold on, breathless, until the trembling passed. He became aware of Mycroft babbling softly, frantically. “God, Sherlock, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

Confusion tugged at Sherlock even through the endorphin haze; Mycroft had done nothing wrong that he could fathom. He set the thought aside for later contemplation. Bending forwards to kiss Mycroft once more, he carefully levered himself off and slumped down by Mycroft’s side, curling into his shoulder. The harsh sounds of their breathing filled the silence, and he closed his eyes for a time, drifting. He opened them again with a guilty start to find Mycroft still in his bonds, watching him. His eyes were tired and oddly damp, and Sherlock scrambled quickly off the bed to avoid them. He found the scissors amidst the pile on the floor and cut Mycroft free.

Mycroft sat up at last, and began unwinding the remains of the bindings, rubbing at his wrists and ankles. His chest and belly gleamed silver in the firelight where Sherlock had marked him, and Sherlock was aware of the dampness of Mycroft’s ejaculate running down his own thighs. He swiped at it fitfully with a random piece of clothing before sitting back down cautiously on the bed, head bowed, waiting for Mycroft to speak. The doubts had already begun to resurface. Perhaps he shouldn’t have . . . but there had really been no alternative. Mycroft was all self-control and propriety, and if Sherlock had simply thrown himself at him, he would only have been soundly rebuffed. Mycroft had already demonstrated the truth of that with his reactions. Therefore this was the only way Sherlock could have proven that he’d known what Mycroft wanted, and that he’d wanted it every bit as much, and in the end they’d both come and surely that made it all right.

It seemed an age before Mycroft finally looked at him, and it was clear he hadn’t appreciated the soundness of Sherlock’s reasoning. “That will never happen again,” he said. His voice was flat and hard, and his hands flexed and clenched. Sherlock waited to see if Mycroft would lash out at him, hurt him, which he would accept willingly, if only it would soothe Mycroft’s agitation. He’d said that Mycroft could do whatever he liked to him, and he’d meant it. But as usual, Mycroft confined himself to words. “And I can only suggest that you don’t try the same experiment on any of your future _acquaintances_ , or you’ll likely end up in prison.”

It took Sherlock a moment to register that Mycroft appeared to have entirely missed the point, which wasn’t like him at all.

“I told you. I don’t _want_ anyone else. Ever.” He paused, then added mercilessly, “And neither do you.”

“You’re barely eighteen. You have no idea what you want.” The assertion was obviously and patently false. Sherlock had always known his own mind, and despite the age difference between them, Mycroft had never before stooped to using it against him in such a patronising manner.

“I’ll prove it to you,” Sherlock said.

“Don’t be absurd.”

“I’m sure you’ll be able to tell easily enough whether I’m having sex with anyone. So I’m not going to. Not until you come to your senses and accept I’m right about this. About us.”

Mycroft shook his head. “You’ll be waiting a very long time.”

“And every time you fuck somebody else, you’ll know it should have been me. It’s me you really want, after all. You haven’t even bothered to deny it.”

Mycroft’s mouth twisted sharply, and he looked away. Sherlock stopped, remembering what Mycroft had said earlier, about Sherlock, about Lucifer. That, too, had made little sense. Mycroft wasn’t religious, and even if he were, Sherlock wasn’t the thing he truly feared. Sherlock’s voice was gentler now, almost pleading. “We are each our own devil, and we make this world our hell.” He reached out a tentative, conciliatory hand, but Mycroft flinched back, and he withdrew it.

“Get out, Sherlock.”

Slowly, painfully, Sherlock obeyed. He got to his feet, gathered the remains of his clothing and his dignity around himself, and swept from the room.

***

In the morning he crept once more into Mycroft’s room to find it cold and empty – bed made, fire out, tea things tidied away. He didn’t need to check downstairs to know Mycroft was already gone. He stretched himself out on the covers of Mycroft’s bed, breathing in the comforting, familiar scent, and stared for a while at the ceiling, trying to imagine himself in Mycroft’s place, to see the world as his brother saw it. For all their similarities, he was aware that there was a part of Mycroft’s mind that remained unreachable, unknowable to him, and he resented it. Their first time together could have gone so very differently. He could have lain here, just like this and Mycroft could have undressed him and kissed him and pinned him down to the bed and fucked him, his conscience clear and untroubled. Why did Mycroft need to make everything so complicated?

Still, he retained the quiet confidence that everything would work itself out in time. Despite the fog of misplaced shame and social convention apparently clouding Mycroft’s brain, surely he would reach the obvious conclusions now that he was in full possession of the necessary data. It was all very clear, and logical, and Mycroft couldn’t hold out forever, even if it meant Sherlock had to follow him to London to remind him of his stupidity. In the meantime, Sherlock would prove that he’d meant everything he’d said. He would be patient. Abstemious.

He could wait for Mycroft; for as long it took.


End file.
